


Day 8: Touch

by thebright1



Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/M, Humor, I mean, Ineffable Valentines 2020 (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Secondhand Awkward, Sexual Fantasy, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, i guess, partially resolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22622956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: Aziraphale is going to masturbate for the first time in his existence.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620406
Comments: 36
Kudos: 233





	Day 8: Touch

**Author's Note:**

> All the works in this series are also posted as a chaptered work for easier reading/downloading (and because I connected all the stories and should have done it this way to begin with): [ An Ineffable Plan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081191/chapters/55213303)
> 
> This picks up a week after Day 2: Roses, and references things from Day 7: My Angel is the Centerfold, although it can be read as a stand-alone. Written for the Ineffable Valentines 2020 Challenge on Tumblr.

May 27, 2015, 8:30pm

When his work is done, Aziraphale retires to the small room attached to the greenhouse on the Dowlings’ estate. The room has a worn loveseat, a full bookshelf, and a small wardrobe. There’s also a minifridge, an electric kettle, and a bathroom. 

This room was not in existence prior to Aziraphale coming to work for the Dowlings. The Dowlings’ personal assistant had been very sure the advertisement had not said room and board included, but Brother Francis had been very sure that it had, and he pointed out how lovely the little room was, just perfect for a man like him, who had very simple needs and was looking to relocate from London. The PA was fairly sure London would eat someone like Brother Francis, but Nanny Ashtoreth vouched for him, and Nanny was so wholly remarkable that the PA could not imagine Brother Francis being anything other than absolutely fantastic. 

Aziraphale’s room, attached to the greenhouse on the Dowlings’ property, does not have a bed, and this has never been a problem for him. Until today. Until this very moment. 

Aziraphale shuts the door behind him, and locks it. He crosses to the windows and manually lowers and closes the blinds, then shuts the curtains over them. The room is plunged into darkness. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He’s nervous, and excited, and scared. He can’t believe he’s about to do this. He’s spent the past week going back and forth about it in his mind. He feels dually embarrassed that it’s taken him  _ an entire week _ to stop vacillating and make a decision, and that  _ he has only spent a week _ weighing the pros and cons in his mind. At this point, all he wants is to get this over with so he can stop thinking about it. 

Aziraphale is going to masturbate for the first time in his existence. 

He’s never done it before, never felt the need to. He knows that human beings need touch to survive. It makes sense that his human corporation would eventually need to be maintenanced in this way as well-- would need touch. Honestly, he should be surprised that it’s taken this long. Especially since he’s a purist. 

Some angels simply remove their genitalia from their corporations. No muss, no fuss. But Aziraphale has always thought that since he was ordered to live among the humans, he should try to blend in in every way he possibly can. How embarrassing to go into a tailor’s shop to be fitted only to have the tailor look up in surprise and ask if you’re a eunuch! (Gabriel had actually had this happen to him, and had told Aziraphale about it, except the way he told it the tailor was as dumb as a box of rocks and Gabriel had laughed and revealed his true angelic glory to the man, “Duh, I’m an angel!”. The tailor had then “stupidly” gone out of his mind and was unable to sew another pair of pants in his life. “What a waste of a corporation!” Aziraphale had been completely horrified by this tale, and recounted it to Crowley the next time they met up to trade notes and drink wine. Crowley had asked if Aziraphale was sure that Gabriel was really an angel.)

So touch was what his corporation needed, and after 6000some years, it made sense. And now he was going to do it. He was in his male form, fully functional penis and all, and he was going to touch himself and then ejaculate. Then he won’t have any more embarrassing moments with Crowley like what had happened last week in the garden. His body feels hot all over as he recalls the incident. His penis twitches with interest. 

_ Right _ , he thinks angrily.  _ Time to put a stop to all of this, once and for all. Get this over and done with, and then you don’t have to think about it anymore, and you can focus your attention on averting the end of the world.  _

Aziraphale takes a step forward in the dark, knocks into the small loveseat. “Oh, honestly,” he says, cross with himself. He flips the switch by the door and his reading lamp turns on. A quick short gesture with his hand and his loveseat becomes a small, single bed. A tartan quilt lies at the foot. The pillow looks fluffy and comfortable. He smiles. This could be quite nice. The bed looks inviting. 

He reaches up and pulls off the sticky prosthetics that puff out his cheeks and give him instant mutton chops. He removes the bite plate, running his tongue over his own teeth with relief. He places these gently on a small shelf by the door whose only purpose is to hold those items. The air in the room feels cool against his overheated face. 

He loosens the tie of the smock and lifts it over his head in one fluid motion. He crosses the room and hangs it in the wardrobe, then looks down at himself in the dim light from the reading lamp. Should he be doing this slower? The Kama Sutra had said that slowly undressing oneself could be pleasurable. He wants to make sure he gives his corporation the maximum touch it needs so that he won’t need anything else for a very long time . . . maybe never again, if he’s lucky. He first undoes the cuffs, then reaches up for the top button of his shirt and begins to slowly unbutton each one. Every time his fingers brush against the skin of his chest, he feels a little frisson of energy. One button, two buttons, three . . 

Once they are all undone, he shrugs out of his shirt, hangs it in the wardrobe next to the smock. His nipples pucker in the cold. Gooseflesh breaks out over his body. To his disappointment, his erection is beginning to subside. He lifts his left hand and gently runs it over his chest, his belly. He makes the movements soft, teasing. Tries to focus on the touch of his hand on his body. It’s not working. His erection has wilted. 

Aziraphale stamps his foot, irritated beyond belief. All this debate back and forth and now that he’s decided to go through with it, his erstwhile Effort, all too happy to make itself known when he’d had his best friend sprawled over him, has now deserted him. 

Aziraphale thinks of what led him to this point. He thinks of the shape of Nanny Ashtoreth’s bottom. He had not meant to stare, but he’d seen Crowley shimmy up that ladder, and he’d seen the curve of his hips and the taut roundness of his arse and thought, incomprehensibly, about just reaching out and squeezing. How hard Crowley would feel in his hands. He feels a stirring below, a little pulse of blood into his cock. 

_ Oh _ , he thinks. Oh, that’s the difference. 

Crowley. 

It’s not this greedy human body. 

It’s Crowley. 

Before they agreed to work together to stop the Apocalypse, he and Crowley saw each other fairly regularly, at least before . . . things had gotten complicated. But there was always time in between their meetings. Sometimes weeks or months. . . most recently years. Now he sees Crowley every day, and Aziraphale thinks the demon’s nearness is rubbing off on him. 

He swallows hard. Rubbing. Rubbing off on him. Rubbing against him, oh dear, how he would love to feel Crowley rubbing against him . . . He feels himself grow harder. 

He takes a deep breath. “All right,” he says to himself. His whisper sounds like a shout in the quiet of the room. “Just get through this.” 

He feels a bit weak at the knees and sits on the bed. With shaking hands, he pulls off his boots, socks, sock garters. He closes his eyes and imagines Crowley there in the room with him. He thinks of the scent of roses. Of Crowley’s breasts pushed against his chest, Crowley’s nipples hard and pointy just like the rest of him. All beautiful jagged angles. Pointy chin, slim muscled calves. Oh those calves . . . standing on that ladder. 

And what if I’d just reached out? Aziraphale thinks. Just put my hand on one of those calves. Slid his hand up and down. He thinks about how they would feel under his palm. Hard. Hard like all of Crowley, hard in all the right ways. 

His erection is straining at his trousers. He quickly undoes the fly, pulling the trousers and pants off in a single motion. He feels unaccountably chilly, so he lays back on the bed and pulls the tartan quilt over him. It feels rough against his skin. Too rough. He needs it softer. He thinks about the feeling of satin against his body. He’s always liked that feeling. Without realizing it, he’s transformed the sheets into satin beneath him. He wriggles gently against the sheets, inhaling deeply, loving the slide of his body against the fabric. 

Would Crowley like satin? Aziraphale wonders. He searches his mind, comes across a memory of Crowley in black satin pajamas with red piping. Oh, he remembers that night. Decades ago, now. Crowley with that shaggy red hair, sleep mussed. Crowley, his rescuer. 

The thought makes Aziraphale’s cock unaccountably harder.  _ So strange, _ he thinks.  _ So strange that it makes me want him more.  _

(That he’s thought of how he wants Crowley instead of how he wants to give his corporation the care and feeding it needs escapes him.)

Aziraphale lets his mind wander. He thinks about Crowley in those black satin pajamas again. He thinks about unbuttoning the top, slowly, each small black bead disappearing into the hole and coming out the other side, soft fabric parted, cool skin underneath. Or hot skin? Would Crowley like it if Aziraphale undressed him? Would it make him hot the way Aziraphale feels hot right now? He can’t get those words out of his head.  _ “I don’t mind . . . not if it’s you looking.” _

His cock throbs. Oh, he’d like to look and look and look. And touch. Oh, touching. He thinks about a flat chest, about small breasts with pointy nipples. Crowley in his male form, his shirt gaping, the curls of his chest hair, Crowley in his female form, Crowley in that blue dress all those years ago . . .

He lets out a small whimper. He’d forgotten about the dress. He remembers it now. Remembers the way it clung to Crowley’s bottom. . . . oh. . . . He thinks about peeling that dress up, warm skin under his palm, trailing his fingers down, down, running them across Crowley’s labia, sinking one deep inside. He whimpers again. Would Crowley whimper? Would Crowley want him? Like that? Like this? 

Aziraphale runs his fingers down his body, under the quilt. He imagines that the fingers that touch him are long and shapely . . . Crowley’s fingers. Maybe with a painted red nail, maybe not. 

Aziraphale uses one hand to circle his nipple, gently pinching the tiny nub. The other hand moves lower, over the swell of his belly. His fingers push through the thatch of curls towards his cock. 

He imagines Crowley teasing him. Of course Crowley would tease him. Crowley would know exactly what Aziraphale needs.  _ Do you like this, angel?  _

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers, completely lost in the moment. _ Oh, yes. _

He circles his cock with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing the base. A drop of precum slips out and slides down his cock. His other hand slides from his nipple down between his legs, cupping his balls. He squeezes gently, then presses his thumb flat against his perineum. Crowley would press a finger here gently. Or maybe . . . oh. . . maybe his tongue. He thinks how warm and wet it would feel. Thinks about Crowley’s breath hovering here, hot on his balls. He thinks about that wonderful tongue. . . Crowley’s tongue goes flat and forks sometimes. . . Aziraphale is not really sure if he controls it or not. He suspects it’s a bit of both. 

_ Do you want my mouth, angel? Do you want me to put my mouth on you?  _

Aziraphale moans softly at the fantasy. “Yes,” he whispers. He wishes he could truly hear Crowley’s voice, wishes fervently that Crowley was here with him, saying those words.  _ Oh, Crowley, how I love you. . . _

He’s leaking precum steadily now, and he slips his fingers into it, rubbing it all over his aching cock. His fingers drag along the sensitive skin. It’s not enough. He needs more wetness. He needs Crowley’s mouth there. Oh, how he wants it . . . wants to feel that tongue wrap around him, squeeze. . . .

He squeezes his cock, but it’s not enough wetness. In desperation, he brings a hand up to his mouth, licks the palm of his hand, tasting his own precum, and then plunges his hand back under the blanket, rubbing his saliva all over his cock.  _ Yes. _ He makes a fist around his cock with one hand, the other cupping his balls. He pictures Crowley’s mouth, open, wet, dripping. He thinks about that mouth swallowing him, inch by inch. He slides his hand up and down his cock experimentally, moaning as he strokes up, squeezing his fingers together at the very tip. 

Oh, that’s so good. . . so good. His arse clenches, pushing his hips forward into his fist. He wants so badly. . . . 

He thinks about Crowley pulling his mouth off him, sliding that tongue up his body, flicking at his nipples. 

_ Do you want me angel? Do you want to be inside me?  _

He moans, loudly now, thinks about sinking his cock deep inside Crowley. Imagines Crowley moaning, too.  _ You feel so good inside me.  _

“So good,” Aziraphale says, tightening his fist, sliding his slick hand up and down the length of his shaft. His hips buck forward, he’s sweating under the quilt, dampening the satin under him. He pulls at the quilt, pushes it to the side, the cool air meeting his skin once more. It only heightens his arousal. Aziraphale can feel the pressure building inside him. Behind his eyelids, he can see Crowley above him, head thrown back, red hair wild, golden eyes shining. Crowley is moaning with pleasure, with the pleasure of him, of Aziraphale, Aziraphale inside him, Aziraphale thrusting his cock in and out. Crowley is glorious, beautiful, and the look of bliss and ecstasy on Crowley’s face is because of  _ him _ , belongs to him. 

_ Aziraphale,  _ Crowley moans in his mind,  _ Aziraphale, I love you.  _

Aziraphale feels a sudden tightening and then a burst. His whole body shudders, and he moans as he comes, his hand a blur that slows to a sticky stop. Aziraphale’s chest is heaving, deep gasps of air as his heart rate slows and he comes back to himself. 

He opens his eyes. 

Crowley stands at the foot of the bed. He’s still wearing Nanny’s clothes. A bottle of wine is clutched tightly in his hands. He’s staring very intently at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale’s mind is hazy. Is this real? “Cr- Crowley?” he asks. And oh . . . oh it is real because Crowley starts like a frightened rabbit. The bottle of red lands on the carpet with a thud, rolls across the floor. 

“Angel . . Aziraphale. . . I . . uh. . . sorry . . . just I thought . . “ 

Aziraphale stays silent. He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? What does one say in this kind of situation? 

“I- I’m sorry, I should have knocked,” Crowley says. He turns on his heel and slams the door shut behind him. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes and huffs. The Kama Sutra didn’t mention this. 

FIN


End file.
